Twin Compasses
by A Darker Shade of Bright
Summary: Marianne and Brandon grow closer together through poetry, absence, and heartache.
1. Marianne's Whim

Twin Compasses

_Disclaimer: I, obviously, did not create any of these characters. They are the products of Jane Austen's considerable genius, at which I balk in awe. _

Chapter 1: Marianne's Whim

_Additional disclaimer: The poem excerptat the end is, of course, from John Donne's "A Valediction: Forbidden Mourning."_

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Marianne accompanied her sister and mother to London to make the necessary purchases for Elinor's wedding to Mr. Ferrars. Although both sisters were reminded of the painful circumstances concerning their last such journey, at least one of them approached this new occasion with complete peace of mind and pleasant expectation for the future. The other, it seemed, was just as agitated as before, but with different reason.

"I do hope the Colonel shall be able to make a visit to us," Marianne professed absently over her porridge on the third morning of their weeklong visit. "We were only halfway finished with Edmund Spenser, and it seems a pity that we shall not have the chance to discuss him again until next week. He will have forgotten everything."

"I daresay the Colonel will continue his studies in your absence," Elinor mused, throwing a knowing look in her mother's direction. It was clear to the both of them that Marianne did not yet know the depths of her own feelings for dear Brandon, having only known the shallow sort of tenderness that Willoughby had bestowed upon her; the Colonel's felicity, each knew, was perhaps only months away. Both had discussed methods of throwing them together, but this excursion into Town and the absence it placed between the suitors proved to be more effective than all the parties of the past two months in Devonshire combined. They had heard nothing from her lips but "Brandon" and "The Colonel" since closing the doors of the London-bound coach.

"I certainly hope so. I am quite looking forward to seeing him again." Marianne primly dabbed at her mouth with a handkerchief.

Breakfast ended, and the three women gathered their accoutrements and headed out to do their day's shopping. Thanks to an uncharacteristically generous gift from John and Fanny on the occasion of Elinor's wedding (the distribution of which all presumed to be John's initiative, rather than his wife's), the three of them were able to have new gowns made. Today their business was a fitting, followed by the search for a suitable gift for Edward. Elinor chose a bolt of fine linen, which she would fashion into a shirt, and a Bible of gilded brown leather. Marianne, who believed in more romantic wedding gifts but who refrained from being pretentious, nevertheless found herself entranced with a book of her own as Elinor purchased the Bible. It was a selection of the poetry of John Donne, with whom she was barely familiar but about whom she had heard great things. She secretly bought it while her mother and sister stepped outside to take account of their spending, and slipped it into the pocket of her cloak.

Lunchtime found the trio back at their inn, where they mapped out their plans for the afternoon. Marianne pleaded abstinence, saying she was feeling poorly, and so after they had refreshed themselves the mother and eldest daughter took off, leaving Marianne behind to delve into her newest book.

She was utterly bewitched. Had she presence of mind, Marianne would have been amazed at the fact that she had not yet discovered Donne. His every word seemed to capture the essence of her very character, and the more she read of him, the more she was certain her newly acquired friend the Colonel must read it. Acting in the impetuous fashion she had recently abandoned after her tragedy with Willoughby, Marianne again found herself writing a letter to a man who was not her betrothed from an inn in London, this time accompanied by a parcel:

_Colonel Brandon, _

_Please excuse my forwardness in addressing you so. I only mean to bestow unto you this discovery of mine. I was quite taken with Mr. Donne, and thought you might appreciate him as well. _

_Yours, &c._

Marianne Dashwood 

It was only after she had dispatched her note and package to the boy downstairs and sat once more in the silence of the sitting room, the final stanzas of one of her new poems ringing through her head, did Marianne begin to notice with the barest fragments of her being that she was forming an attachment.

_Such wilt thou be to me, who must_

_Like th'other foot, obliquely run_

_Thy firmness makes my circle just,_

_And makes me end where I begun._

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	2. The Colonel's Reply

Twin Compasses

Chapter Two: The Colonel's Reply

_The chapter's closing couplet is from Donne's Elegy X._

Christopher Brandon stared at the letter and parcel he held in his hands for what felt like days. She had written to him.

What did it signify?

Nothing had ever hit him like this before. He remembered his darling Elizabeth, and the ethereal heartache he had experienced during every moment spent in her presence. But this was different. This was quieter, more serene, yes, perhaps not what Marianne herself would even begin to name as love. This was the love of a man who had theoretically lived long enough and experienced pain enough to doubt the very existence of love. And yet he found himself inexplicably in that very state, with no hope for recovery.

And here, impossible though it may seem, was a letter and a gift from the lady herself.

Of course Brandon had read Donne before. He found it a bit odd that Marianne had not, until now. Her experience of literature was great, but he knew she had possessed little enough time in her short eventful life to acquaint herself with all of the poets in the language. He rifled through the text, skimming the lines of a few of his favorite selections. Some of them seemed to be hers as well, for she had earmarked three or four pages.

Retreating to his great library from his sitting room, Brandon sunk into a soft chair and clutched the letter to his breast. The entirety of his association with the Dashwood women passed before him and he recalled the moments which had tugged at his heart, awakened the dying dragon within him as he grew more and more enamored with the second daughter. From his first view of Marianne playing the pianoforte in John's home, to his discovery of the attachment between Marianne and Willoughby, to Marianne's illness and recovery through poetry, never before this very moment had he allowed himself to hope.

But, he reprimanded himself, what was it that he hoped for? Did he hope for a deeper friendship with her? One which included the infrequent discussion of books over toast and tea? One which would wax through Elinor's first few years of marriage and then wane again when Mrs. Jennings found another suitor for the girl and had her married off someplace remote, with Christopher left alone for the rest of his days? Could he really hope that this odd gesture of friendly outreach could signify the return of his affections, the promise of something lasting and true?

She had fallen in love with Willoughby, a man so completely unlike himself. What had it been that differentiated the two of them so? Age, definitely; his flannel waistcoats spoke volumes in her eyes. Their manners were different. Willoughby was disarming, merry, jubilant, alive. And, of course, he was an unconscionable bastard, but without knowing this charming detail she had loved him for his vivacity. The colonel's river of sentiments ran a bit deeper. Though he lacked confidence in many respects, he knew this difference between himself and his nemesis. At least he had a soul, and at least he experienced more than shallow, petty physical fancies.

What she had loved most about Willoughby, the colonel knew, was his ability to show her how much he held her and her opinions in esteem. Brandon had never been an openly affectionate man, even in his youthful liaisons. But underneath his stoic exterior he was as capable of physical and emotional passion as great as any man's, perhaps because of his reserved nature.

Could he show her this side of him? Would it frighten her away? Could he live without her if she ended their too-brief readings and discussions, married some young buck with wild eyes and rough hands, and left him forever?

_Miss Marianne Dashwood, _

_No apology is necessary. I want to thank you for this particular volume, as I was not fortunate enough to have purchased it as yet. Donne is a particular favorite of mine, as a matter of fact. In return for 'Songs and Sonnets' I should like to send you Donne's 'Elegies,' with the promise that we shall discuss Donne in general upon your descent from Town. Do not forget our Mr. Spenser, however; it makes him feel unimportant._

_Yours, &c._

_Christopher Brandon_

After all, he might as well give it a try.

_Fill'd with her love, may I be rather grown  
Mad with much heart, than idiot with none._


	3. Where I Begun

Twin Compasses

_Note: I did not, in fact, begin reading Austen before I read Harry Potter. I was twelve when I read _Philosopher's Stone _I did, however, see the film versions of both Emma and Sense and Sensibility, as well as an older version of Pride and Prejudice with Greer Garson and Laurence Olivier, when I was about ten, and I read Sense and Sensibility a month or two after I read Harry Potters 1-4. I'm a Brit Lit junkie, what can I say?_

Chapter 3: Where I Begun

Stepping out of the carriage onto the green grass of Barton Park once more, Marianne noticed the faces of her friends the Middletons, as well as Mrs. Jennings and the youngest Dashwood sister, but though she sought for that other amicable countenance she was disappointed. Mrs. Jennings embraced Elinor warmly, exclaiming, "Now, Miss Dashwood, you shall have a proper wedding! And you must let Lady Middleton and myself help your mother in the proceedings! Oh, I shall burst from all this excitement! Oh, Miss Marianne, is her gown as fine as I imagine? Miss Margaret, we must persuade her to show it to us at once!" And the three exhausted ladies who had descended from the carriage had no choice but to smile, nod, and be ushered into the great house for tea and refreshments.

Marianne, who had dropped her shawl and paused to straighten it, found herself at the back of the procession, behind Sir John and Margaret, who were discussing Arabian weaponry. The gallant knight, noticing that she was left to herself, made room between them and initiated her into the conversation, asking her whether she had found London at all diverting. She replied politely, and allowed them to continue their discussion on the anatomy of a saber, until her sister interjected, "Sir John, did you not say that the Colonel would arrive later this afternoon?"

"Oh, yes, of course. He is an excellent resource on the subject, although I believe in present company he would rather be employed discussing music and poetry." Sir John's waggish comment was lost on Marianne, but not on her sister.

"He asked about you, you know, Marianne, when you were gone." Margaret's merry impertinence seemed to take on a form of its own as it danced like a sprite down the walkway. "He wanted to know if you had read that Byron fellow. I think he wants to read him to you. I wish he would spend less time on poetry and more time on shooting, because I should very much like to learn how to shoot his musket, and he has promised me that someday he'll teach me. Oh, but I'm not supposed to tell anyone that." And the girl clasped her hands over her mouth and was silent, while Marianne's eyes widened in horror, and John Middleton threw his head back in a roar of laughter.

"What will this girl think of next?" And he ruffled Margaret's hair in a fatherly manner. They were approaching the door to the great house and, in their train, they each crossed the threshold in a different mindset: Margaret embarrassed, Sir John mirthful, and Marianne anxious.

As Marianne, Elinor, and Mrs. Dashwood headed upstairs to freshen up before tea, the servants began in the preparations for the meal, Margaret and the Middleton children gazed up at Sir John as he spun a yarn of his days in India, and the two matrons stitched as they listened to the proceedings, a pair of horses trotted up to the Park's entrance.

Edward had filled his time at Delaford with renovations and arrangements so that it might accommodate himself and his promised. The Colonel had been kind and generous enough to offer him, in the interim, a room in his own manor, which he accepted because of the strained relations in his own ancestral home. Brandon had been invaluable to him, not only in his generosity but also in his friendship. Edward had never known anyone, save Elinor, whose goodness penetrated to the depths of the soul despite all of life's vicissitudes as Brandon's did. And so, when Edward found it befitting in his betrothed state to call on Elinor and her family at Barton upon their arrival from Town, he naturally invited his friend to accompany him.

Edward never suspected the state of Brandon's heart. Brandon's reserve extended even to his closest allies, thus bereaving him of a source of comfort he might have experienced had he unburdened himself to the future husband of his beloved's sister. Nevertheless, Brandon approached the meeting at hand with a steady stride, uncertain of what would come but eager for even the smallest hint of affection from the face of the lady in question. Entering the foyer, the two gentlemen waited to be announced to the inhabitants of the parlor. Their hosts stood, and when Brandon and Edward sat, the rest of the party sat.

'Where is Elinor,' thought Edward. Perhaps she was still dressing from her long carriage ride.

'Where in God's name is Marianne,' thought Brandon. And he was unable to rationalize a reason for her absence, except to register it in his mind as the negative of all good things in his life.

For this was the difference between the two men. The one, certain of his future happiness, cared not that his beloved was not there, to glance and gaze at. He permanently pictured her in his mind, which picture checked his impatience with its loveliness and felicity. The other, half despairing of winning his beloved's heart and hand, needed physical presence to assure his mind that she was a human being and not a goddess sent to punish him by her neglect.

After hours of minutes of seconds, the ladies descended the stairs, and tea was served to the company. Elinor and Edward were seated in close proximity, and when together the party observed an aura of perfect contentment surrounding them. Mrs. Jennings vocalized to Lady Middleton that she had never seen such a well-matched pair. The lovers discussed the vicarage and the improvements Edward was making on it.

Meanwhile, in the room's quietest corner, the Colonel and Marianne were discussing Donne. "The Flea" is perhaps my favorite, although "Twickenham Garden" is lovely as well. And, of course, I am quite partial to "The Dream."

"I am glad you found John Donne to your liking." He smiled at her, and they were quiet for a moment. His heart was still.

"I must say, though, I was disappointed that you had already known of Donne, Colonel. I thought I was making a contribution to your wild, infinite collection. It seems to be without end." Marianne looked at her feet. Their hands, upon the settee, were astonishingly close together.

"It shouldn't surprise you, Miss Marianne. I am a good deal older than you are, and naturally more well read." It was a self-deprecating thing to say, but he said it anyway. "As I wrote to you, however, that particular volume had yet to come into my possession, and so it was a surprise indeed when I received it."

"You are not so very much my senior, Colonel." Why did she need to assure him of this? She did not know. "Shall I ever find a poem you haven't read, or a piece of music you haven't played or listened to?"

He laughed in his dizziness. "There are many, I promise you. I am not as knowledgeable as all that." Her flattery confused and emboldened him simultaneously. "Perhaps if you were to send me a composition of your own, you could be certain of its being new to me."

Their eyes met as he smiled wryly at her and she was without words for a moment. "Colonel, come, we must continue with poor Spenser," she faltered, not certain how to respond to his invitation, or what sort of invitation it was. She stood, clutching her volume of Spenser's poetry in her hand and leaving the Colonel's gift of John Donne on the settee for the time being. He stood with her, slowly but powerfully, and she noticed for the first time the inherent grace in his motion, not at all youthful but with the sturdiness that indicated calculated, precise choices in every limb he raised or lowered. "Mama," she interrupted her mother's discussion with Sir John, "may I go and read with the Colonel? We shall be in our usual spot outside."

Mrs. Dashwood glanced at Brandon, who appeared, as usual, nonplussed as he stood behind her middle daughter. She, however, who had been his confidante in the carriage to Cleveland one hellish night very recently, knew better. "Of course you may."

"I'm a bit tired is all," she had reassured him as they had begun reading, when he had commented that she looked pale and should perhaps go back inside. And here she lay, spread out on the chaise and fast asleep. He had been appalled when first he realized it, five stanzas into "Prothalamion"- not because she was in any way less beautiful while sleeping, but because he did not know the proper protocol for such a scenario. Should he attempt to wake her? Should he summon her mother or sisters? Neither of these options seemed seemly, so he opted instead to sit by her side and watch her eyelids twitch occasionally, and listen to her soft, surprising snores.

Twenty minutes later she awakened, and he hastily assumed the facade of silent reading. "Oh, Colonel," she murmured. "I am so sorry."

"Pray, why are you apologizing? It is I who should apologize for not insisting that you report to bed at once, although I must admit I was amused by the celerity with which Spenser put you to sleep. Perhaps we should choose something a bit more exciting." His gentle chiding settled over her like a warm shawl.

"I'm afraid I dozed off in the first stanza, Colonel. I shall not trouble you by asking you to read it again. Only let me read aloud awhile, to wake myself up."

"With pleasure." He handed the tome over to her soft hands, and settled in his chair to let her voice carry him away.

As she read, Marianne, who was not stupid, realized that the two of them were in danger of forming an attachment, and this frightened her, because she still doubted the existence of _second_ love, however untrue first love might have been.


	4. The BookWorms

Twin Compasses 

Chapter Four: The Book-Worms

After more than a year of barely daring to hope, Colonel Christopher Brandon began finally to devise offensive tactics for his assault into Marianne Dashwood's heart. He searched his library high and low for the choicest of selections to tempt her, knowing that the way into her good opinion was through her literary sensibilities. He invited her nearly every other day to accompany him, either at their usual rendezvous in the garden or on extended walks through Barton Park, for discussions after breakfast or before supper.

One such discussion, a walk through a particularly remote breadth of Barton land, took place two weeks after the Dashwoods' return from London.

"You know, Colonel, I really must thank you. You are saving me from Elinor's tiresome wedding planning." Marianne smiled brightly. "I never knew marriage was such a tedious endeavor. I should prefer to remain a maid all my life, rather than have to put my family through such torture."

Brandon laughed at Marianne's complaint. "I'm sure Elinor herself is not to blame for the brunt of the frivolity. Our mutual friend Mrs. Jennings, I think, will claim some responsibility."

"Dear God, the woman is half mad. She approached me yesterday, taking me by the shoulders and shaking me until I nearly collapsed, and asked me whether pork or lamb would be more appropriate for the wedding breakfast. She was in quite a state!"

"I'd hate to ask her opinion on the subject of laces; I have a feeling she'd keep me up all night," Brandon commented, and Marianne giggled. "Still, she means well."

"Oh, there is no doubt that she has done more to facilitate this wedding than anyone on this earth. Except you, of course," she added a moment later, in barely more than a whisper.

There was a pause. "It was the least I could have done," Brandon replied in the same tone.

"Perhaps you do not realize with what esteem I have heard you praised, by both Elinor and my mother. You are regarded as something of a saint in our home now."

Brandon groaned inwardly. Since the night of his flight to Cleveland with Mrs. Dashwood, he had regretted letting Marianne's solicitous mother know the nature of his feelings. He had a feeling that she would use this knowledge in an attempt to bring the pair together, much to his embarrassment and further heartache. It seemed that he had been correct in his fears. And yet- there was something wistful in the way Marianne spoke of her mother's reverence for his character that made his breath catch.

"Miss Marianne, I am kind for the simple reason that, in my own youth, so few people were kind to me. I know what it means to love without any hope of ever achieving the full array of happiness one associates with the married state."

Marianne, awed at his plain speech, was emboldened to ask a question that had plagued her for some time. "Colonel, might I ask you a question?"

"Permission granted."

"Has Miss Eliza yet entered her confinement? Is there anything that we might do for her?"

The older man's expression was unreadable as he gazed down at her for a moment before answering, "She was delivered of a daughter on Wednesday last. She is under the best care I could have given her, considering her state. The child… the child nearly passed away in her first hours, but she seems to be out of danger, and is recovering beyond our expectations. May I… why do you ask?"

Marianne glanced down at the hem of her gown. "As you know, I have many reasons to be concerned for both mother and child." She looked up again into Brandon's eyes. "But foremost is my gratitude to you, Colonel. For everything you have done."

Brandon felt a desire more strong than anything he had ever experienced, a need to take her in his arms at that very moment and make love to her and declare her his very own, but he did not. His voice quavered. "Miss Marianne, you- you cannot know how much your gratitude means to me." And underneath his stiff politeness, he ached in a way that, had Marianne known, would have proved his youth forever.

"Colonel, are you all right?"

"Yes." He took a deep breath and smiled. "I fear I am getting old."

Suppressing a shudder, Marianne continued with this line of questioning. "If there is anything any of us can do for them, please do not hesitate to ask." They walked on in silence for several minutes, Marianne unaware that she slipped her arm through his. The colonel began to wonder if she was torturing him into a slow and painful death. "I never learned of the babe's name," she said.

"Isabelle." Brandon began to steer Marianne toward the cottage once more, as the hour approached six and supper was surely being prepared.

"It is a lovely name."

She stooped to pick a handful of wildflowers, disengaging herself from Brandon's arm, and he watched the proceedings, relaxing. "I believe that if one were in doubt of the existence of God, one could simply turn to daisies for ample proof. Everything perfect in the universe is contained in a daisy." She proffered one of her daisies to her companion.

"Once again, I must disagree." He drew her into one of their pleasant arguments, and she arched an eyebrow in a gesture she could only have gleaned from his example.

"Please, elucidate, I beg of you."

"You see, wildflowers are an everyday sort of lovely. They grow everywhere, with no need for special care or attention."

"Ah, and how better to explain the ubiquitous nature of God's love?" she quipped.

"True, true. However, consider the rose. One must tend it rigorously, and even when it blooms it yields thorns that scratch and tear at the skin. But its blossom is more complex, more precious and more rare than any other."

"Hence giving testament to God's magnificence and power." She grinned warmly.

"Perhaps." He reciprocated her smile. "It speaks, in the language of flowers, of the relationship between God and Man."

"Perhaps we are both correct, Colonel Brandon." She linked arms with him again, this time on purpose. "Are you yourself a gardener?"

"Why, as a matter of fact, I am. You and your family should pay a visit to Delaford to view the gardens. They are considered among the finest in Devonshire." He laughed at himself. "I stretch the truth a bit there."

"Then perhaps we could continue our debate on the theology of flowers?"

"You are, in fact, long overdue for a visit. Our last party was unfortunately cut short." His heart filled to bursting with expectant delight.

"May I play your Broadwood Grand?" She inquired, with a hint of uncharacteristic shyness.

"The pianoforte awaits your accomplished fingers as we speak."

"Then it is settled." She balked. "Awaiting, of course, your formal invitation." Sometimes Marianne reminded herself of her younger sister.

"Very well, Miss Marianne. I cordially invite you and your family to a- shall it be a dinner party? I look to you to help me with the particulars- on… shall we say, Friday?"

"Friday, then. I shall look- we shall look forward to it."

Brandon led Marianne into her home, realizing with surprise that he had her exactly where he wanted her.

_So thou, sweet Rose-bud, young and gay,  
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day,  
And bless the parent's evening ray  
That watch'd thy early morning._

_-From 'A Rose-Bud By My Early Walk', by Robert Burns_


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